Addams Back in Time
by PurpleAlpacas
Summary: John Astin (Gomez Addams) had always loved Carolyn Jones (Morticia Addams) but their confessions came too late and their would-be love story was only limited to the 1964 TV series, The Addams Family. But what if John Astin managed to travel back in time onto the set, find Carolyn as Morticia and live with her as Gomez Addams for real?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything Addams nor the actors from the 1964 TV series, John Astin and Carolyn Jones, except a passion for these two wonderful people as Morticia and Gomez Addams. Enjoy._

**Chapter 1**

The white-haired professor shuffled up to the stage to rearrange some of the props. The chair angled a little more this way and the table just a little to the left. Then, he stepped back to survey the shadows playing out against the lighting. Satisfied with this, he called back to the lighting box upstairs, "It's good! Thanks, Mickey! You can switch it off now!"

Somewhere upstairs, unseen in the darkness, a chirpy slightly muffled voice responded. "No problem, Professor!"

"Be a good lad and help me lock up tonight, won't you?" The professor backed down the stairs, giving the stage a last once-over before leaving the set.

"Yessir." Came the amiable reply and the lanky college student who had been fiddling with the lights began powering down the system.

"Well, he's in a hurry." The freshman, Sam, who had sat alongside Mickey remarked as he observed the professor throwing his coat over his broad, slightly hunched shoulders and retreating somewhat hastily for a semi-retired lecturer.

Mickey clucked to himself knowingly as he switched off the various electrical outlets. "He's got an appointment." He supplied rather cryptically. "He always has this one every year."

Sam was suitably intrigued. "What's this 'appointment' about?"

Mickey smiled a sad smile. "He's meeting an old friend."

* * *

><p>The phone rang twice before it was picked up.<p>

"Hello, Mac dear, is that you?"

"Val? Yes, it's me. Is something the matter?"

Valerie twisted the phone cord as she said, "Oh, nothing much really. I was...really wondering how the children were doing."

"They…they're fine, Val. Why shouldn't they be?"

A fidgety pause. "Mac, I was wondering… if I could come up for a bit, for dinner and to see the girls." Val said in a hesitant rush.

"Of course you may." A hearty laugh. "I'll let the girls know. They'll be thrilled to have you. Is Dad coming?"

Valerie paused again.

"No… he isn't." Her gaze drifted and her voice adopted a faraway dreamy quality. "He isn't free tonight."

Something meaningful in her voice caught Mac's attention. As if understanding, her stepson intervened smoothly.

"Right, then. Just grandma. We will see you tonight at, say, 7?"

"That would be lovely."

Mac hesitated. "You alright, Val?"

Val flitted back into the moment.

"Yes dear. I'll see you all at 7."

"Fantastic. See you later. Goodbye."

The phone deadened with a click. Valerie replaced the receiver, comforted with thoughts of having company tonight. Without John.

* * *

><p>The weather was suitably grey as Professor John Astin drove along the rather windy, lonely road.<p>

From the corner of his eye, he glanced the simple bouquet, or rather, the had-been bouquet. He couldn't help but smile wryly. A stray rose petal betrayed the once gorgeous arrangement of roses, which had now been effectively reduced to a bundle of stems. John swept the remaining petal off.

He'd clipped off the red rose heads before he came, leaving the long thorny stems wrapped up in the soft paper. He had done it almost reverently, as if it were some kind of pruning. Just like how she used to.

"Do you have those kinds of paper in black?" He had asked the bewildered flower shop assistant who had been nestling the roses in a baby pink felt. "My friend liked black."

No, the girl had apologized. They did not have black. They had cheerful greens, yellows, purples and pinks but most unfortunately, not black.

What about black ribbons? He had asked.

The girl proffered red ribbons, which he had sighed and declined.

At last, he managed to find black paper and a silky black bow to match from some of the props in the school theatre workshop. He had tied the stems in the middle such that it looked absolutely pathetic and hideous which meant that she would most probably have loved it and as such, he was well pleased with his handiwork.

The car took a last smooth turn and entered the hushed grounds of the memorial park. John picked up his little offering and begun a slow, quiet walk to her headstone.

He gripped the bouquet of stems as he maneuvered past beautiful grey headstones scattered about the park. A wave of irony washed over him and he found himself smiling again.

We said we would belong here but we both know that that's not true, just a bit of acting. Morticia and Gomez Addams might have belonged here. But not Carolyn. Definitely not Carolyn. She belonged to the land of the living. She loved life so much.

He finally found her. Her named was carved in the pristine stone he had come to recognize so well. On the mound of dirt, he saw that some others had already come to pay their respects. He chuckled at their distasteful show of flowers, pretty blues and whites.

He sighed, lowered himself and stood his bouquet next to theirs. She would have liked his the best. She would have understood.

With much effort, he got up again.

"Hello, Carolyn." He whispered, his voice trembling as he reached out to feel the cool marble under his palm. "It's me."


	2. Chapter 2

_*Author's note at the end of the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything Addams nor the actors from the 1964 TV series, John Astin and Carolyn Jones, except a passion for these two wonderful people as Morticia and Gomez Addams. Enjoy._

**Chapter 2**

Everything about Carolyn Jones had been impeccable. That was the first thought John had as he stood reverently before her grave, silently surveying her name mounted above her mother's.

_Carolyn Sue Jones__._ He read, savouring each syllable. He baulked at the slightly foreign, metallic tinge death ran into her name. It made her seem distant. _I knew you, Carolyn Sue Jones._

John had admired Carolyn. He had admired her deeply. Carolyn Jones had been pure talent. She had been intelligent, humorous, sensitive and kind to a fault. She had expected nothing short of perfection from herself and saw that she got it. Above all, she had been a close friend and a confidant. But what John admired the most from her was her strength, which one did not expect from the poised, reserved actress.

He felt a stirring ache as he recalled her last years and days. Carolyn had been almost perfect. Almost. Something inside her had gone wrong and kept her sick. She had weakened a great deal but only physically. Her passion for life, her zeal for acting, those remained fiery and bigger than her wizened, crumpled frame.

Perhaps that was why he never accepted the fact that she could die. Perhaps that was why when she did leave at last, he found himself so unprepared even though she had been staring death in the face. John heaved, the overwhelming sadness true and piercing.

He tried to speak now, just to hear himself talk, to anchor him in the present, away from the hazy past. He spoke of little things at first: faithfully recounting the mundane routine of school, the students, family and friends. Then about old times, jokes they used to share and laugh at. It all seemed so far away now. It didn't seem to matter anymore now that she wasn't here.

At last, he ran out of things to say. He stopped with a sigh and then said the only thing he really meant to after the half hour of empty chatter.

"I miss you, Carolyn." He murmured, valiantly attempting to disguise the break in his voice. "I do, so very much." His hand reached for his moustache as he found himself choking a rising sob mixed with a chuckle at his own foolishness. A single tear slid down his cheek. "You'd think I'd get used to it by now." He grinned, abashed, as he always did when he was embarrassed and wiped the lone tear with the back of his hand.

He felt a growing lump sitting in his throat and didn't trust himself to speak anymore. He didn't like the way he sounded. He didn't recognize his voice. Instead, he sank back into his thoughts where he was sure she could hear him anyway.

_I remember you onstage, in front of the cameras, winning the hearts of millions. Why are you here now?_ He grazed the back of his fingers gently against her name plague.

_We should be making a comeback for Charles Addams. The Addams in their Eighties! We'd be a riot, querida_! He quivered with emotion, knowing he was being foolish but finding it impossible to stop himself. He was rambling now. He couldn't help it. He always rambled when he felt helpless.

A noise at the far end of the park startled him out of his excitable thoughts. Remembering where he was, he stilled himself with a great effort. In the silence, his last word echoed into the back of his mind. _Querida_. He thought, fondly. He had done it again. He had slipped back into being Gomez without knowing it.

Gomez Addams had grown onto him like a second skin that he was too comfortable in to want to get rid off completely. He had liked being Gomez. He was so good at it he thought that some part of him was indeed Gomez Addams.

In truth, he missed being Gomez. Her Gomez.

Gomez was happy and silly and thought the world of his wife. John had liked the excuse of being cheerful and happy-go-lucky in Gomez's naïve way. He had liked pampering his adoring Morticia and he felt like he could only ever properly be Gomez when Carolyn played her.

And Carolyn, Carolyn played her well. Carolyn played her to perfection. Everything could have been real, the way they acted. And he knew that some part of it, some part of it _was_ real. It must have been. It had been real enough to him. It was the only explanation he could find for that twisted feeling he got when Carolyn left. The idea that Carolyn Jones was gone... he couldn't yet fathom that. He probably never would. The reality of her death would never fully be his reality, no matter how long ago she had left.

After she'd died, he couldn't be Gomez anymore. He couldn't imagine Gomez without Morticia. He didn't even _want_ to be Gomez without Morticia. It seemed pointless like that and was just too awful to think of. Morticia had been the joy of his life. Without her, Gomez was as good as the walking dead. And John certainly felt like the walking dead.

He stood a little dumbly before the marbled grave, overwhelmed that this woman, who had been so infused with life, the epitome of raw passion and of unbridled vibrancy, was now limited to the confines of a chiseled stone. It was cold and beautiful, but a mere shadow of what she had been, what she was.

_Gone too soon, Carolyn._ He chided. _Too soon._

He winced at a passing flash of hollow pain at the thought.

_Still, you made the most of it._ He admitted wryly after a pause, his characteristic humor taking on an unusually droll pallor. _I'll give you credit for that_. His grin was bittersweet as he shook his head in a sad, knowing way.

He heard a little rustle nearby and caught sight of a middle-aged man shuffling past. John recognized him as the new caretaker and nodded his greeting politely, hoping that he would leave him alone, as the old caretaker used to do. No such luck. The man tipped his hat in return as he passed John and then pivoted to his side. He peered curiously at the grave John was at and then took up a conversational tone.

"You knew Miss Carolyn?" he asked casually, gesturing in her direction.

A lopsided grin escaped John. "I did."

The caretaker looked more closely at the headstone and gave a sudden exclamation, which seemed too loud on the quiet grounds. He couldn't contain himself. He had only been here a few weeks but had noticed that Carolyn received more flowers and surprisingly, more beautifully wrapped thorny stems, than anyone else. He was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

"More stems?" he sputtered, eyeing John's fresh bouquet. "What's the big idea, giving stems instead of flowers? I've been clearing away stems from her grave since I got here! Did she garden or something, and liked the stems more than the flowers?"

John thought the caretaker to be on the verge of being mildly annoying but replied him perfectly seriously.

"You could say that." He answered solemnly. "Carolyn did enjoy gardening. She grew a great deal of henbane, poison ivy and had the best home-grown hemlock in town."

The caretaker froze. "H-hemlock?" He repeated, his eyes bulging and incredulous.

"Naturally. She'd brew the hemlock for guests who dropped by. It made an excellent beverage." He went on indifferently. "She also adored African stranglers. She'd feed them zebra burgers, you know. The stranglers loved her zebra burgers." He added innocently.

The caretaker swallowed. He thought he had heard wrongly. He opened his mouth to ask, then catching sight of John's decidedly grim expression, thought better of it and shut it again. He decided he didn't want to know anymore. Wicked John looked so sombre that the poor man couldn't tell if he had been serious or not. He turned away, confused, missing the naughty gleam in John's eyes.

John laughed inwardly. He immensely enjoyed the look of disbelief that crossed the other man's face and knew how Carolyn must have been laughing too. For some reason, this made him feel very overcome. That she could still make him smile after so long and that they could share a joke beyond the grave...only Carolyn could do that.

"…Best be saying your goodbyes." The caretaker advised, finding his tongue at last. He shot a dubious look at the professor before shuffling away. "The park closes in 5 minutes."

Closing time already? John glanced at his watch. He must have been out longer than he thought.

He gave the caretaker a sheepish smile as the man hurried away, no more enlightened than he was before.

_We still got it, cara mia__._ He thought impishly, turning back to Carolyn. Gomez's pet name for Morticia didn't seem to match his now gravelly voice anymore, nor the subject of his affections who was frozen in the little picture clipped to the foot of the stone. Still, it had become a habit, which he was not ready to outgrow just yet.

He chuckled a bit, then sobered completely. He had to go. With a heavy heart, he pressed his fingers gently to his lips and then to her name.

_I'll be back soon._ He promised. _I'll be back to see you…Carolyn._

He threw a last longing look at her name which washed over him with a million meanings before reluctantly picking up his feet and gingerly walking off the pins and needles.

The wind began to stir ominously and the dried leaves crackled and swirled around him. He wound his scarf around his neck more tightly as the sky clouded over and hurried to the car park as the first beads of rain began to fall.

"Drive safe, mister!" The caretaker called from the gate over the howling wind. "Rotten weather's coming on!"

John raised his hand to give a wave before hurrying away, his collar up against the plunging temperatures of the evening.

He slipped into his car just as the light pitter-patter of raindrops swelled into a full force tempest. The brewing storm unleashed all of its massive fury in the wind and the water. Thunderbolts clapped mightily against the rolling gray sky and a kind of darkness seemed to settle all around. John gave a relieved shudder.

_Even this storm is too much for Gomez Addams to appreciate._ He thought wryly in his irrepressible humor as he brushed the silvery drops from his hair.

John fumbled in the dark for the keys and got the car started as the rain beat down mercilessly in torrents all around. It poured in sheets of flowing water over the windscreen such that it became nearly impossible to see, despite the straining wipers. The feeble light from the car barely illuminated the lone, winding road which lay ahead. Squinting through the storm, he slowly inched the car forward, the darkness closing in at an alarming rate all the while.

It could have been the long hours out, the sorrowful reminiscing or simply old age and bad weather put together that John made a sudden turn to avoid what he fancied was something dashing across the road in front of him. He cried out in surprise as the car swerved sharply on the wet ground and began spinning madly out of control. The rest of the road seemed to have disappeared as he struggled to regain his hold on the wheel. Desperate to get his bearings, he slammed his feet onto the brakes but the car was already careening straight toward the memorial park gates.

What happened next was a perfect blur. There was a loud reverberating crack as the car smashed into the looming gates. Nothing could have prepared him for the sudden force of the car slamming against the thick iron bars. He heard the shrieking scrape of metal where the gates met the car and was lurched forward in a violent jerk, the wind completely knocked out of him. The belt confining him to the seat snapped and he crashed heavily through the windscreen, slipping down the hood and tumbling a few feet away from the wreck as the glassy fragments rained around him.

His shoulder connected the cold, wet ground and he instantly felt a burst of fire as the pain flared up at once. He cried out and crumpled to the floor, his face warm with blood. He lay there, hardly daring to move, watching his car burst into flames in a kind of dazed shock. He stared, hazy, heavy, unable to feel anything anywhere under the dull numbing pain that was quickly swallowing him whole.

The lazy flames licked his smouldering car until it burned merrily in a brilliant fire. He seemed almost entranced by the dancing fire, blurring as his eyes went into soft focus. Darkness slowly blackened his peripherals and time itself seemed to have stopped. The sound of his pounding heart drummed too heavily in his ears as he concentrated on steadying his breaths. He struggled to focus on the ebbing fire but knew it was futile.

For a long time, he thought many things to himself, the rushing panic slowing into crashing, incoherent thoughts. He felt as if he just had his whole life rushed by him in flashing visions. He reached the final image, his gaze fixed and far off. This last scene lingered in his mind's eye and brought a kind of satisfied smile to his lips, half-hidden as he lay deflated, his face to the ground. He mouthed something, barely a whisper in the wind and at last, weakly gave way. His eyes drooped shut and his uneven, ragged breathing slowed as the fire from his flaming car slowly died away.

A kind of eerie cold settled like fine dew all around, perhaps death poetically resting its claim on him. The crackling fire had long fallen silent and the wrecked tangle of metal lay cold at the gates. Never had the world been so grey, so cold and so silent.

In the misty quiet, the only sign of life appeared in the form of faint, mechanical, even footsteps striding towards him. A familiar hulking silhouette approached John's fallen frame, his tread characteristically heavy, his movements stilted and reserved.

He picked John up easily in his long arms and made his way placidly to the mansion, past the gate John had crashed into. As he passed it, he shook his head ever so slightly, accompanying it with a guttural growl.

"Lurch. Drive. Next time..." He muttered, followed by another disapproving grunt as he stepped across the threshold into the Addams household.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note:<em>

_First off, thank you all so much for the very heartening reviews! I was truly overwhelmed by the encouraging response and I thank you for taking time to read and review. It means so much to me and I'm glad that you've enjoyed my first chapter._

_I want to especially thank the guest reviewer who brought to my attention that Carolyn Jones was cremated and her ashes buried in a wall instead of in a grave yard. For the sake of the story though, I'd like to exploit my artistic license to set her resting place in a grave yard. It just seems like the classic setting for an Addams Family story and it was the way I imagined it when I wrote it. Nevertheless, to stay as close to reality as possible, I googled her burial site and described her grave in the story to resemble it as best I could. I've never had the opportunity to visit Melrose Abbey in person so I can't quite see it in my head as easily as I can see a generic grave yard. Please do send a rose on my behalf and give my love to Carolyn when you do visit her again. :) I'd be greatly indebted. _

_Lastly, I'd like to credit my brother for his contribution to the car accident scene. I can't seem to write action scenes properly. Thanks for making it work, bro. _


	3. Chapter 3

__*Author's note at the end of the chapter!__

_Disclaimer: __No intentional disrespect is directed at any of the actors, living or dead, in the writing of the story. __I don't own anything Addams nor the actors from the 1964 TV series, John Astin and Carolyn Jones, except a passion for these two wonderful people as Morticia and Gomez Addams. Enjoy._

**Chapter 3**

John felt stiff all over. It was an improvement from feeling absolutely nothing but it was awful all the same. His head felt completely leaden. His fingers and toes felt muffed and woolly and his mouth tasted of gravel. He blinked, his lids flickering as his eyes adjusted to the gentle candlelight. Encroaching waves of pain seeped steadily into his stirring limbs as his body took its time to wake. He counted in deep breaths as he waited it out. It hurt. Everything did. His mind roused sluggishly, trying to determine which way was up.

What time was it? Where was he? He struggled to sit up, regretting it immediately as a surge of dizziness crashed over him. Tenderly, he felt the back of his head. His fingertips met with gauze, clumsily entwined round his head. The dressing barely held over the wound and the noncommittal wrappings were already dripping in tendrils.

He hastened to bind the loosening strips and then searched himself carefully for any other signs of injury, broken bones or scraps. He was more than surprised to find himself well enough save for his head and the fiery bolt of pain which shot through his shoulder when his arm was raised at an angle.

_I...should have died._ He thought incredulously, feeling his unscathed body. _Or become paralysed, at least. Bedridden. Something vaguely serious_. He heaved as a jolt of pain rattled him. He took a breath to steady himself. _Pain is good. _He reminded himself, recovering with a gasp. It meant that he was alive. Hurt, but alive nonetheless. He reached for his sore neck, amazed at this miracle, and groaned as he tested it gingerly, turning it slightly this way and that.

That was when he saw the bear.

His breath caught sharply which stabbed his lungs at once when he saw the grizzly stuffed animal, standing tall and proud. It's paws were outstretched half-threateningly, revealing its magnificent claws. Its head was still the same oddly small head atop its long furry body. Its face was frozen in a perpetual snarl. It looked exactly the same as he remembered it several decades ago.

John hadn't set his eyes on it for a long time but he knew it well enough. He knew the matted fur on the bear's long body, the height from the top of his head to the animal's bared, pointed teeth and where its paws stretched out to reach his right breast pocket. He never forgot _this _bear. But why…why was it…here? Where _was_ here?

He let out a weak gasp as he flopped uselessly back down to the couch. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar two-headed turtle in the middle of the room. It resided placidly on its flat table, reigning peacefully with an almost regal air in the living room. John's eyes bulged. He knew this turtle. He stared at it, recognising, wondering if it was truly possible that _this_ turtle was actually in front of him. As if hypnotised, he reached out a trembling hand to feel the turtle's mighty shell. It was cold and strong, and very much solid. It was real.

He allowed his hand to rest there, taking the turtle in. Suddenly remembering, his head snapped to the back wall where he saw the moose head, set royally above the fireplace. One of its horn was upturned and the other was twisted downwards at an odd angle. The horns framed the moose's rather solemn expression and gave it a rather comical effect.

_The moose_. He mouthed, remembering.

He turned back to the other wall and spotted the swordfish with its pointed nose thrust boldly from the wall. Its gaping mouth held a part of a human leg, which ended in the calf, presumably where the fish had swallowed up to. The familiar striped pant leg nestled well in the fish's mouth, almost comfortably, with its sensible working shoe dangling from the leg. John knew this as well.

In fact, he knew all of this. And he knew where he was.

He was in the Addams' family house.

_But how… why... _He shut his eyes as his mind swam in a somersault. Why on earth was he on the set of the Addams family? What _happened_?

He swallowed and tried to clear his head. Through the smoky details, he recalled the memorial park, the rain, the car, a magnificent smash… He'd had an accident, he recalled, slowly unravelling his memories. He'd slammed into the gates in that dreadful thunderstorm. But still…that didn't explain how he had been spirited from the park to the set. Who would do such a thing, he wondered in amazement, to bring him all the way to the Addams family set as he lay on the road, bleeding to death?

_I need to think_. He shook his head, clearing the lingering fog. He tried to stand. The badly dressed wound began to unfurl, draping uneven strips of bandages down over his shoulders. Preoccupied, John didn't notice as they peeled from his matted head and melted into a puddle on the floor.

He decided to call home before anything else. Val might not know he was here and she'd be panicking by now. He didn't know what time it was but he had a vague notion that it wasn't early. He fumbled for his phone and retrieved the squashed slip of metal, bent and trinkling with crushed fragments from his pocket. It was obviously beyond hope.

If John were in a better state of mind, he might have wondered if there were any _people_ milling about the set who could have helped him. He might have noticed that he was no longer in his old jacket but in a smart, striped suit that suited his well cut built. He might have even noticed that he had _hair_, a full head of it, black as soot, under the last of the bandages. As it was, he only managed to wonder if there was a working phone around here he could use to call somebody.

"…Where's the phone…?" he muttered, groping about with one hand while he steadied himself with the other.

He heard the squeaky hinge of a wooden lid and a third hand deftly swiped the phone receiver, offering it obligingly to him.

"Thank you, Thing-" John said absentmindedly before recoiling in horror at the live hand propped up patiently in the box. "Augh!" He jumped back as if he had been shot, staring in utmost horror at Thing who appeared curious at its master's strange response.

"DON'T GET UP!" A voice screeched across the living room, half an order and half a plea.

The shock promptly sent John crashing back down onto the couch as a little rounded man waddled over quickly, a menacing-looking instrument in hand. Thing slinked off, unheeded, into the depths of his box, surprised and a little hurt at Gomez's behaviour.

As he rounded over to the couch, Uncle Fester gave an exasperated sigh.

"Now look at what you've done!" he whined sorrowfully, picking up wadded bandages that had collected at the foot of the couch. "And I worked hard on it too!" He harrumphed, tossing the clump of soiled bandages away.

John stared, open-mouthed. He couldn't take his eyes off Jackie Coogan. It had been years...

His voice seemed faraway as he chided John. "Get Morticia to do your bandaging, I ain't doing it over." Fester was saying huffily, looking distastefully at the messy tangle of gauze.

John didn't trust himself to speak. He felt something awful rising in the depths of his stomach. For his part, Uncle Fester didn't seem bothered by Gomez's lack of speech. Instead, he fussed over the rod of metal, which jagged dangerously along its edges, resembling a badly cut saw blade.

"Here! Look what I saved from the wreck!" Uncle Fester beamed, forgetting his crossness at John at once. He blinked his squinty eyes proudly as he held his prize up. "I polished it up a little. Looks pretty good eh?"

John nodded slowly, slightly, his eyes never leaving this…apparition.

"J-jackie?" He said at last, his throat scratchy and his voice not more than a squeak.

Uncle Fester didn't notice the squeak nor John's apparent disbelief.

"Well, you wrecked the car pretty well too. We'll have plenty of scraps we can use to upgrade the playroom!" Fester went on excitedly, giving a few swings with his weapon.

John squeezed his eyes shut. This was too much. This was…wrong.

_I'm…I must be in the hospital. With a kind of...coma. That's it! And this… this is all a bad dream… a hallucination…_ He thought, cold sweat beading his forehead.

"Hey, Gomez," Uncle Fester's nasally voice rang through his thoughts concernedly. He lowered the rod. "Are you feeling ok? You don't look so good."

John's eyes popped open. He saw Jackie Coogan, eyes ringed darkly, head bald, looking worriedly at him, at Gomez, his nephew.

He took a deep breath. "You aren't real." He murmured, staring straight at Fester. "You can't be real. You're..." He gulped, the word feeling clumsy as it balanced on the tip of his tongue. "You're dead."

Uncle Fester beamed again. "Gosh, you think so? That baking powder for men really does wonders for the face." He patted his pale cheeks happily. "Morticia says it brings out the inner glow, a kind of deadly pallor, you know. And I didn't believe her!" He grinned, pleased.

John missed Morticia's name in watching Fester closely. He _seemed_ like Jackie. He seemed real. Alive. But that wasn't right. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

"No, no, no." He was shaking now. "You're _dead_, Jackie!" He repeated aloud, more firmly though his words still felt unwieldy. He shook his head, trying to convince himself of what he knew was true. It was difficult to, with Fester standing before him, eyeing him suspiciously.

Uncle Fester squinted, one eye widening more than the other as it always did when he was skeptical.

"I am most certainly not dead, Gomez. I'm as alive as you are!" He paused, confused and a little insulted now. "Who's Jackie?"

"_You_ are_._" John said desperately. He reached to shake him, knowing, hoping that his hands would pass right through.

They didn't.

"No, I'm not." Fester answered indignantly, swatting John's hands away from his shoulders. "What's the matter with you, Gomez?"

John reeled, staring at his hands which had clutched Jackie Coogan. An awful thought dawned on him. He fell back, faint.

"I _am_ dead…"

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Thank you all so much for all your reviews! Your support is truly a great source of encouragement and motivation for me. I hope you'll stick around and enjoy reading me as much as I enjoyed writing this._

_I'd like to pay a tribute to Ken Weatherwax (Pugsley Addams) who passed away due to a heart attack on 7th December 2014, aged 59, __at his home in West Hills, California. __Although he reportedly found it difficult to find other roles after his stint as Pugsley due to typecasting, I am still selfishly glad that he played Pugsley Addams because he made Pugsley for me in his own unique way. And I loved Pugsley that way. Rest In Peace, Ken. _


	4. Chapter 4

_*Author's note at the end of the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: __No intentional disrespect is directed towards any of the actors, living or dead, in the writing of the story. __I don't own anything Addams nor the actors from the 1964 TV series, John Astin and Carolyn Jones, except a passion for these two wonderful people as Morticia and Gomez Addams. Enjoy._

**Chapter 4**

He was dead. John Astin was dead.

He didn't _feel _dead. Honestly, he didn't. He still felt sore in places a live person might feel after an accident of sorts. _That is, if the person didn't die in the accident. _He reminded himself.

Death _would_ explain Jackie Coogan's presence perfectly.. but even then, it didn't seem quite right. For one thing, it didn't make sense to be _here_ of all places. John had to admit he had always wondered where he'd go when he died but he certainly never expected _this_.

No, this couldn't be it. It didn't fit. The concept of his death would not sink in. There had to be some other explanation.

"Fester…" He tried slowly, wondering how he should even begin to explain his predicament.

A pattering of feet and an adamant voice piping up from the front door overruled the rest of his thoughts.

"Father, Father!"

To his immense surprise, a black blur shot into the room and he found himself staring down at lithe little Lisa Loring who had clambered onto his knee. Lisa was dressed in a simple, serious black dress sensibly buttoned to her neck, her hair neatly parted and plaited into two limp pigtails. A decidedly stormy expression clouded the precocious child's features. Her rosebud mouth was set into a determined sulky pout and the rims around her eyes were dangerously dark. Her clothes, coupled with the thunderstorm on her face, made her appear more grown-up and grimmer than she really was. Lisa Loring was Wednesday Addams now.

A stout boy, just a little larger than Wednesday, pattered in amiably behind her, a little keg of TNT in his hands. Ken Weatherwax was in his trademark striped shirt and shorts, his liquid dark eyes warm and deeply set and his hair slightly ruffled from some sort of recent excitement. His cheeks, still puffy with baby fat, were flushed a pale pink as he tottered in loyally after his little sister and planted himself by John. Ken Weatherwax was Pugsley Addams.

It struck John that Lisa Loring being here wasn't right at all. Her appearance dropped like a bombshell into his train of logic and lodged itself there, stuck, a piece out of the puzzle. _Lisa's here._ He froze. That couldn't be right. It was off. That changed everything.

Before John could straighten out his thoughts, Lisa turned to point an accusing finger at Jackie.

"Uncle Fester is being mean to me!" Wednesday Addams cried indignantly, turning her pert head sharply to her Uncle Fester, her pigtails slapping John in the arm as she did so.

Fester sputtered in disbelief. "I am not!" He returned at once, his eyes widening incredulously.

"Are too!" Wednesday turned to John for support. "Uncle Fester took the piece I wanted from the wreck! I was going to make my dolls a nice guillotine blade with it!" She accused, her fiery eyes a pair of shining gimlets. "It was nice and long enough to execute several of them at the same time." she explained, her voice dropping momentarily as she imagined the scene, a ghost of a slight dreamy smile passing across her face.

Fester curled his arms protectively around his rod as best he could.

"I saw it first! You couldn't even lift it!" Fester hedged huffily, sensing that he might lose his prize.

"I went to get Lurch to help me! Pugsley said you took it away when I went!" Wednesday insisted.

"It wasn't nice to take away what Wednesday saw first, Uncle Fester." Pugsley added placidly as Fester shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh Fester! You shouldn't bully the kids." Grandmama Addams chided, appearing from the kitchen with a smoking drink in hand. Blossom Rock was dressed messily in her own mismatched drapes; her hair wild and wispy reflected her exuberance and hearty spirit despite the age apparent on her face. Her eyes twinkled and her mouth was twisted in a humorous way. "Give the scrap to Wednesday." She was saying to Fester, waving her weathered hand at the rod.

"It's too big for a guillotine." Fester sulked. "She can use the other pieces in the wreck." He brightened. "Or Gomez could run another wreck for little Wednesday." He suggested hopefully.

"There's not enough gate for another crash, Uncle Fester." Pugsley put in helpfully. "And they don't make cars like father's old one anymore. It wouldn't be the same."

John felt all eyes turn to him. It was his cue, he knew, to resolve the whole argument with Gomez's cool head and unoffending charisma.

Although the family dynamic had been scripted before, it didn't seem to have changed. As an actor, John Astin was sure he was experienced enough to improvise. He also knew that, as Gomez Addams, it was unusual for him to be at a loss for words. He ought to have been able to handle this easily.

Yet, when he opened his mouth to speak, he found that his voice wouldn't come. He had no lines. He didn't know what to say, or how to say them. Everything proved too much, too overwhelming for him to string together a few coherent sentences. What with his accident in which he had yet to figure out if he were alive or not and that he was even talking to people who shouldn't have been able to, it was too much for him to try and pretend that all _this_ was normal.

His moment passed. When Wednesday saw that Gomez couldn't help her just yet, she got off his lap, her fixed stare never leaving her uncle.

"Give me back my blade, Uncle Fester!" she demanded, a pompous note of finality ringing surprisingly regally for a child. "You'll be sorry if you don't." She added ominously. Behind her, Pugsley nodded knowingly, as if he knew all too well Wednesday's various threats and punishments.

John found himself watching young Lisa Loring as she drew herself to full height and majestically commanded her property to be returned to her while Fester squirmed guiltily. There was something about her that reminded him that he couldn't possibly be dead, that she wasn't like the others and didn't belong here.

Then he remembered: Lisa Loring was still alive. She hadn't yet died. And if she was alive, and was here, then it was possible... it was possible that he was still alive too. Maybe he wasn't dead after all either!

He swallowed at this newfound revelation. It was his only hope. He _could_ get back. His mental faculties were intact enough and his physical capabilities were no less hindered than before, except for his head and arm. The thought of possibly being alive lent him strength to snap out of his daze. He jolted and felt his mind begin to work more quickly.

First things first, he had to get his bearings and sort out whatever it was before him. He surveyed the situation and decided that the best thing to do was to be who everyone assumed he was: Gomez Addams. It would be too much for them, he thought, if he tried to explain that they were in fact, all actors. At any rate, if they were all well and truly in character, he didn't exactly trust that any of the Addams' would be able to get him back safely to his own time and place.

He tried to think of what Gomez Addams might say in this situation. It didn't come as naturally or as easily as he thought it would.

_I'll just plunge straight into it._ He thought, trying to psyche himself._ Once I get started, it might all come back to me._

He cleared his throat. "Come now, Wednesday." He began, his voice sounding rather milk-and-water with the initial stilted difficulty. He frowned. He sounded very much like a wounded John Astin and not at all like the irrepressible Gomez Addams. That wasn't it. He cleared his throat again and tried harder to be more boisterous. "It's no good to execute several dolls at once. You'd go through them too quickly." He pointed out matter-of-factly, attempting to recall and attune himself to the warped logic of the Addams' lifestyle.

Everybody turned to him and he felt nervy at once. This was unlike any other performance he had ever done. He was commanding attention as Gomez instead of himself, to people who _genuinely_ thought he was Gomez. That didn't leave much room to slip up. Even though he had played Gomez Addams remarkably decades before, it was something else to have to live up to it again after so long. He wondered if the others would figure that something was amiss, that he wasn't really Gomez after all.

He needn't have worried. It seemed to work. The others appeared to consider his suggestion quite seriously and that bolstered the confidence he needed. Gomez's rhythm seemed to return to him and the rest of his speech came out more easily and convincingly. "It's much better to save them up and behead them one at a time. Besides, how would all your dolls feel if they knew they had to share their executions with so many other dolls?" He said earnestly in Gomez's expressive up-and-down voice. He was getting the hang of it. He held his breath when he finished, hoping his intervention did the trick.

"Yeah!" Fester punctuated enthusiastically and then shrank back under Wednesday's withering glare.

Wednesday looked mutinously at the rod so safely couched in Fester's arms, as if undecided if she wanted to buy her father's reason.

"Come on, Wednesday." Pugsley said good-naturedly, helping her make up her mind. "We can blow up some more of the wreck so that you can get to the bigger pieces below." He waved the keg in his grasp. "I'll lend you some of my dynamite."

Wednesday seemed to like the idea of blowing up the wreck. She acquiesced with a small, satisfied smile and took her brother's arm.

"I'm watching you, Uncle Fester." She warned with a dark look, a well-timed gust of wind accompanying her parting words. Pugsley led the way and both children made themselves scarce, skipping back outside to the metal heap of remains at the gate.

"You go look after them, Fester!" Grandmama exclaimed. "Shame on you for bullying the child."

Fester made a face and waddled after the children, tucking the scrap cosily under his arm. "I'm the one being bullied around here." He grumbled loudly as he went. "I never get nice things!"

"Get Lurch to help them, Fester!" John called after him, the thought of the children with dynamite suddenly striking him as dangerous. He doubted that Wednesday and Pugsley would get hurt, but Lisa and Ken who were playing them might.

"Oh, children will be children." Grandmama chuckled assuredly as peace was restored in the mansion. "And Fester will be Fester. " she added, frowning a little then shrugging carelessly. John nodded meekly as Grandmama scooted to sit beside him, her overflowing smoking goblet leaving a wispy trail behind her.

"How are you feeling, Gomez?" She asked, her voice scratchy but her eyes sincere and kind. "That crash seemed to have taken more out of you than usual." Her forehead creased concernedly.

John dared himself to meet Blossom Rock's caring gaze. He felt something catch in his throat. Blossom was so real. She seemed even more motherly than usual, her little frame hidden under her various odd clothing. Her bedraggled appearance lent to an endearing, wistful effect which moved John more than he realised.

"...Just a little...out of touch." He managed, with an abashed, almost shy smile.

"Try this." Grandmama offered the goblet to him, the smoke clouding over his face. "Extra strong for knocks and near death. " she proclaimed proudly.

"Oh! Umm..." John gulped, alarmed as Grandmama pressed the goblet into his grasp. "That's alright, Mama." he said hurriedly, eyeing the drink which was bubbling sinisterly. "I feel better already. " He fibbed. He was _not_ about to drink this God-knows-what just when he thought he had survived death.

"Nonsense!" Grandmama persisted. "Just a bit of Mama's brew will do you wonders."

He winced, thankful that the overwhelming smoke masked his fidgety expression as he wondered how he could get out of this one.

"Go on." Grandmama prompted. She was so eager and almost gentle that John found it hard to refuse. Something in her eyes drew him to trust her. He gulped again. _I must be out of my mind. _He sighed, resigned. Quivering, he brought the goblet to his lips. The smoke tickled him just slightly and he shut his eyes against them as he tipped the cup upwards.

If he could imagine what swallowing fireworks was like, this would be it. The brew was sweet and fizzed tremendously as it shot past his throat, exploding all the way from his mouth to his stomach. It went down so quickly he didn't know if it had been hot or cold.

He choked and sputtered as Grandmama slapped him heartily on the back. "What is it?" He gasped.

"A bit of coal and things." Grandmama grinned a toothy grin wickedly. "The rest's a secret."

As he recovered from his first swig, John felt his head lightening up. He blinked. The brew really seemed to clear his head and he _did_ feel much better. He took another tentative sip, curious now at this miracle drink as well as to please Mama. This time, he allowed the liquid to stay in his mouth. He thought the drink tasted like Coke which he liked. For some odd reason though, he found this drink awful. He tasted it until it got too sweet to keep on his tongue then he swallowed with a shudder, another wave of relief washing over him.

As he sipped, the smoke thinning considerably around him, he wondered if he should ask Blossom, just to try and see if knew what was going on, if she knew she was more than Grandmama Addams.

"Blossom...?" He asked the ditzy grandmama gently.

Grandmama made a face. "You don't think I'd put blossoms in them do you?" She gave a shudder. " I may brew a sweet medicine but I wouldn't go so far to put blossoms in it. Awful things."

She didn't know. John thought sadly. She didn't know she wasn't just Grandmama.

"The sweetest medicines are the best medicines I always say." Grandmama went on, oblivious but satisfied.

John nodded in agreement as he drowned the last of the brew. "Yes, Mama."

"I'll go get you another." Grandmama said eagerly, springing up from the chair, refusing to be waylaid by John's protests and reassurances. He watched her leave, half grateful for some time alone.

He recollected the scene before, where little Wednesday had pitted herself against her Uncle Fester. It was something of an occupational habit, to replay the previous scenes and figure out what would make it work better for the next take. He had had the liberty to improvise when he was filming the series, being the first actor to flesh Gomez Addams out and this always helped him to create Gomez properly, including tricks of speech and other details people often took for granted.

John mused. Something had been off there in the scene. There had been a missing element to balance the ratios, a missing chemistry, voice of reason. He recalled the scenes he had acted in several decades ago. What usually happened during a familial disagreement? He hardly remembered that he managed to resolve anything, at least, not without the help of…

_Morticia. _His heart skipped a beat. That's why it felt off. Morticia was usually there, around, just an arm's length (or less) away from him to sort out disputes of this sort. He had always followed Morticia's lead. _That's_ why it didn't work. He hadn't had a lead to follow.

The thought of Carolyn struck him. He tried to calm himself. The adrenaline was already rushing in his blood at the singular hope but he couldn't bear getting his hopes up for nothing. _Maybe she wouldn't be here._ He tried to rationalise._ Maybe it was a cruel trick of fate to have everybody here except Carolyn... but what if...what it maybe this was it?_ His heart began to race. What if this was the chance to see her again, in person? Was he… could he actually meet her again? Be with her? Talk to her, hold her and laugh with her?

_...Love her?  
><em>  
>"Mama," John steeled himself to ask as Grandmama re-entered, the goblet overflowing with smoke once more. "Mama...where's Morticia?"<p>

Before Grandmama could reply, he heard her. He heard Carolyn before he saw her.

He never thought he would ever hear her again.

But he did.

"Gomez darling, you're up!" she said from behind him.

John swore his heart stopped. He'd recognise that voice. He'd recognise Carolyn's voice any day. He'd only heard it a thousand times in his dreams.

He whipped around, half afraid of what he'd see, or not see.

...And there, there, on the top of the banister, the epitome of elegance, exuding poise and promise in the fullness of her youth and beauty, was Carolyn Jones.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Thank you all so much for your absolutely wonderful reviews! They really make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and I'm so glad you're enjoying my fic so far! Thank you also for your patience~ I know this chapter was a little late in coming, what with all the Christmas holidays. Hope this somewhat long-ish chapter will make up for that!_

_As school is starting up again soon, my updates may not be as frequent as I'd like but I'll try to keep the chapters coming! Do stick around, though! I promise the end is worth the wait. ;)_

_Lastly, Happy New Year! :) Here's to a successful 2015!_


	5. Chapter 5

_*Author's note at the end of the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: __No intentional disrespect is directed towards any of the actors, living or dead, in the writing of the story. __I don't own anything Addams nor the actors from the 1964 TV series, John Astin and Carolyn Jones, except a passion for these two wonderful people as Morticia and Gomez Addams. Enjoy._

**Chapter 5**

Carolyn Jones was beautiful.

She had always been beautiful, both in real life and in pictures, as a person and as an actress. John had always known that.

Yet, it wasn't until seeing her again, here, now, that he realized he had forgotten _exactly_ how lovely she was.

Carolyn was perched on the top of the stairs, poised on a pedestal, it seemed, for John to admire all at once. Her willowy figure was fine marble, skilfully fashioned to perfection; her gentle curves were modestly accentuated by the silky black woven about her. Her hair, a lush fountain of pure ebony, streamed richly past her slender shoulders, the inky shade framing her fair, expressive heart-shaped face. Her features were delicately flawless; her flashing blue eyes were precious sapphires intricately cut to catch the life and light of all the beautiful thoughts that ran through her head and her lips were but petals, exquisitely formed and artfully drawn in the hue of blood red roses.

She was _beyond _beautiful.

John stared at her, star struck, frozen, as though he were seeing her for the first time. He couldn't move, couldn't think. His mind thudded to a stop. He felt sure that his heart stopped also. She was such a moving vision, too wonderful to be true that he hardly dared breathed or blinked. His entire being was suspended in the moment he laid his eyes on her, teetering precariously in the vague, pregnant pause a mounting roller coaster does when it reaches the highest point of the track before plunging headlong into a series of corkscrews, not unlike the whirl of emotions he now faced, pulling him in all sorts of different directions. The waves of feelings broke over him in an incoherent rush, vying for his immediate attentions in a frenzy.

A part of him desperately, stubbornly, _childishly_ wanted to lunge forward and hold her, never to let go. Yet another part of him was afraid that if he moved at all, she'd vanish forever for the second time in his life. The last part of him remained floored at the sight of her and didn't want any more than to stay exactly where he was, in this surreal moment of just seeing her, as if through a glass screen. He would be content to watch her. It was already more than what he could have bargained for. His dreams had taught him not to expect anything, never to try grasping.

If he was rendered immobile by her spell, Carolyn behaved the opposite. He saw her eyelids flutter, her hand fly to her chest at his open-mouthed, blank look, minute details occurring in slow motion as if a painting was stirring to life. Then her lips parted and she spoke.

"Oh, my poor, _dear_ Gomez!" Morticia exclaimed, the sigh of exasperated relief evident, her low sultry tone only slightly muting the fading tinge of nerves which evaporated as her gaze settled on Gomez.

And just like that, she broke the spell and stepped through the glass.

He let the light pleasing lilt of her refined speech circle his dizzy head and the weight of concern behind her charming voice wash over him, warming the tips of his ears.

Rather dazedly, he watched her descend the stairs in little restrained hobbles, preoccupied with trying not to trip in her haste. With each step she took, drawing him closer to her, he fell a little apart, unsure, slowly unwinding, unravelling in a blurry mess. His limbs were melting such that he was sure he would be blown away by even a gentle breeze.

And yet, he found a new strength watching her. All the fading memories he had tried to keep hold of, everything he ever remembered about her seemed to dawn on him with renewed clarity. He looked, as if he suddenly realized something wonderful, a veil removed from his eyes.

Carolyn beamed radiantly with perfect health. Where she had been physically wanting, she was completely restored. He found himself marvelling at her full, rosy smile which had been hollowed out by her sickness. He beheld the relaxed way she carried herself, elegant and poised, free from the crippling pain of cancer. He relished her pure health, the vitality that had been sapped away by trips to the hospital and endless medications.

The dusty images of her weakened self, forgotten cobwebs at the back of his mind, were swept away. In its place, he drank in the sight of her before him, alive and well and larger than life. A small bubble of bliss rose up inside of him and fizzed into a satisfied, boyish smile. Excitement, _joy_ replaced his initial nerves. This was the Carolyn he remembered, the Carolyn that was so loved and immortalized, Carolyn at her best. This was how it ought to _be_.

"Oh, darling, I'm so glad you're up!" he heard her say, her voice sounding far away before he realized that she had rather gracefully glided across the threshold to his side. "How are you feeling?" she asked worriedly with an air of intimate familiarity, chiming into his thoughts.

He felt her ivory fingers brush his forehead and started. She had raised a hand to his head and was gently brushing aside the flattened, unruly tufts of hair clumped at the wound.

His heart leapt into his mouth, almost choking him. He hadn't been mentally prepared for her to touch him, or for any of this at all for that matter. He _had_ always dreamt of such moments, the visions vanishing, however, whenever he reached for her, always so close but always just out of reach.

He braced himself now, expecting a cold chill to trickle down his spine, sparks, zaps, an electric shock, a foreign feeling from her graze which would take getting used to.

None of that happened. Instead, he found the touch almost painfully familiar, surprisingly human. It was admittedly anti-climatic, quiet, but it was the sheer normalcy of it that moved him, merely a natural gesture from wife to husband. He trembled, trying in vain to steady himself. He could have wept.

This was Carolyn's touch. Carolyn's. He could feel her. And somehow, he knew that she wasn't going to go away.

All at once, every other thought, every worry and protestation fell away, like the shedding of old skin. His confusion, the inexplicable excitement of seeing her and the overhanging fear and dread of losing her died away under her tender, childlike gaze, under her light yet familiar hand. Everything else faded away, everything but her. Everything but _them_.

The spark which had been burning away at the edges of his heart since he saw her suddenly caught a flame and flared. John knew the tongues of this bittersweet flame well, a fire that had long ceased to burn, a fire only Carolyn could fuel. It had laid cold, forgotten and mourned for the longest time but now, he felt it churning quickly, hungrily. It flickered unsteadily at first and then constantly, healthily, thawing the neglected furnace inside and swelling him like a hot-air balloon.

This fire had never needed much encouragement to be stoked but often required much effort in putting it out. Throughout the years, he had had to check himself, to snuff this little flame, to hide it behind sheepish smiles or bury it deep inside him before it set him ablaze. In fact, he had had to do it so often that he was quite an expert in it although dousing it never got easier.

But now, he didn't want to. He wanted it to burn. He felt a sudden surge of boldness replace his timidity. He had been uncomfortable hiding this flame and he was unsure in letting it burn even now, but he let it anyway. He wanted it to light, to grow, to fill every part of him. He was determined that it burned as merrily as it wanted to. He wasn't going to hide it.

No, he didn't know what was going on and yes, he knew better than to play with such a potentially dangerous fire, but he was determined _not_ to miss this, not to miss _her_.

He had missed her before. And he wasn't going to again.

"Gomez," Carolyn's voice drifted over his thoughts, her gaze gentle and regal, intense and innocent. "Gomez, are you alright?"

He stared, wide-eyed, a rosy glowing feeling spreading throughout his body. "Wonderful." He breathed at last. "I'm...wonderful."

"Where were you, Morticia?" Grandmama Addams asked, transporting him back to the moment, restoring some semblance of ordinary life.

Morticia sat John down who was trying his hardest to snap out of his trance and simultaneously wipe the awestruck look off his face.

"I'd been down in the playroom looking for the Indian clubs." Morticia replied. "When Gomez didn't wake, I thought I'd do some of my home treatments - a few good knocks to the head." She explained with an experienced air. "They were always effective in waking him up. Besides, Gomez always did like my delicate touch. Don't you, darling?" She added, a small indulgent smile playing on her lips.

John blinked. "Ah…yes?"

"I couldn't find them, though." She went on, frowning. "Did you happen to see them by any chance, Mama?"

Grandmama chuckled. "Oh ho, they must be with Fester!" she declared heartily, a mischievious gleam in her eyes. "He and the children were playing 'Club the kid!' yesterday. You know, the one with the kids bopping up and down the graves and Fester try to club them." She grinned. "Ah, what fun. I was keeping score." In a mock whisper, she added, "Fester is _hopeless_ at it."

Morticia nodded. "How nice. But Uncle Fester might _try_ and remember to put things back after he's used them." she chided, tutting disapprovingly as she crossed her arms. "He ought to learn from the children." She said, not without a touch of motherly pride.

"Well, you needn't have worried anyhow, Morticia." Grandmama squawked. "Wasn't Fester right? Gomez just needed to wait it out, that's all! Besides, he's alright anyhow, after my special brew." She raised her glass cheerily.

Morticia nodded appreciatively at Mama and returned to study John's wound. She frowned at his undressed head.

"I thought Uncle Fester bandaged you up." She said, peeling off the last of Fester's goodhearted attempts.

"He did." Grandmama supplied helpfully.

"They…came off." John added, feeling he ought to say something, just to test his tongue in Carolyn's presence. He wondered if she would hear that he didn't sound like Gomez, _wasn't_ Gomez. He wondered how he would deal if she did find something amiss.

Morticia picked up the roll of remaining bandages tossed carelessly on the table.

"Yes, well, I had better do it over." Morticia decided at last, coolly. "I _did_ take a nursing course once."

"When?" Grandmama exclaimed, her skeptical bug-eyed look not unlike Fester's.

"You remember, the one I went for a few months ago. Dr Mbogo was giving a free class." Morticia reminded, uncoiling the strips of linen. Her fingers moved nimbly, well acquainted in all matters of unraveling. Hours of unwinding yarn for knitting had its benefits.

Grandmama squinted, scrounging up her already wrinkled nose as she tried to recall. "That was a nursing course for plants, wasn't it?"

Morticia paused uncoiling midway, her head tilted thoughtfully before she shrugged and continued. "Plants, people, there's not much between them…Oh well, I'm sure whatever the good doctor said would be useful somehow." She purred contentedly.

Suddenly, loud, rhythmic thumps, accompanied by the whistling of something slicing through the air sounded from the conservatory, making them jump.

"Jeepers, what could that be?" Grandmama asked, peeking through the glass doors of the little conservatory. Her eyes widened. "Why, Cleopatra's going bonkers!" she exclaimed.

Morticia started at Cleopatra's name.

"Oh, no, the poor dear hasn't had her dinner yet!" She sprang from her seat and hobbled a few steps towards the conservatory to see Cleopatra throwing one of her infamous tempers. She was doing a crazy shimmy, swinging and looping dangerously closely to Morticia's other potted darlings.

"Oh-" Morticia appeared torn for a moment between Gomez and Cleopatra. She tottered back to Gomez, casting a pleading look at Grandmama as she passed her.

"Oh, Mama, could you feed her, please?" she held up the bandages entwined around her fingers. "I couldn't possibly - The burgers have all been minced."

Grandmama snorted. "Cleopatra is _such_ a picky eater." She whined. "And she has such _bad_ eating habits. Always gulping." She shuddered.

"Now, Mama, not so loud. She might hear you." Morticia reprimanded, for although she was asking a favour of Mama, she wasn't going to allow anyone to insult her strangler. "Cleopatra isn't picky, she just has a _sensitive_ palate."

"Please, Mama." John found himself jumping in, the imploring undertone thinly veiled. He hoped that the short connection he had established with Blossom would let her catch the meaningful note in his voice. He really wanted some time with Carolyn _alone_.

When Grandmama still looked reluctant, John pulled out the big guns.

"I'll give you a nice piece from the wreck for harpooning." He offered hopefully, trying not to sound too desperate. It wasn't until he said it did he realize what he'd offer. Where did the harpooning come from? He shrugged inwardly, hoping that Grandmama actually _did_ harpoon.

Grandmama's eyes sparkled. "Really? Oh boy!" She bounced on her heels. "You _do_ know how to treat your Mama." She patted John's cheek. "I want a really nice pointy bit, you got that?" She said, moving off to quell the ruckus in the conservatory.

"Do remind Cleopatra not to gulp, Mama!" Morticia called after her receding figure.

"You don't suppose Cleopatra would give Mama trouble, do you?" she asked Gomez dubiously, watching Grandmama toddle off to meet the African strangler.

Before John could reply, a series of crashes and a loud "Whoopee!" rang from the conservatory, amidst other various clatterings and unidentified noises.

"…I'm sure Mama can handle herself." John replied deadpan, after a beat.

"Yes, well, Cleopatra doesn't mind Mama." Morticia mused, self assuredly. "She must be giving Mama a good squeeze. Mama does enjoy that."

It was quiet without Grandmama. John didn't quite know what to say, how to begin. He had so many things to say, so many things he wanted to ask, questions which he had been trying to answer since he got here.

_Carolyn_, he wanted to say, except that he wasn't sure he could take the blank, confused look he was sure to get from Morticia. He _knew_ how she would answer but he still wanted to try. He _needed_ to.

He cleared his throat once or twice which was promptly misread by a distracted Morticia.

"Oh _dear_, Gomez, you do sound awful." She offered Grandmama's second helping of brew which was smoking rather forlornly on the table. "Drink up. It does wonders." she cooed. He reddened and mumbled a shy 'thank you', sipping obediently while she returned self-absorbedly to the task at hand. She unraveled the strips and spread the cloth this way and that, as if she couldn't decide how she wanted to wrap his head up.

"Here," she said at last, handing John the edge of the bandage while he tried not to jump whenever she addressed him. "Hold it up for me, please, darling." She guided him to press the end of the linen against his forehead as she got up with the roll and went around him, letting the strips run around the sides of his head.

It had never been easy to move in that dress, but Carolyn managed to with a practiced ease. John wouldn't have been surprised if he found that she enjoyed the challenge. He had suspected as much, tiring as it was. He admired her gracefully rounding him until the strips ran amok and slanted over his right eye, hiding her from view.

She bandaged very badly, only a little better than Fester did. He felt her tugging them this way and that, trying in vain to keep them in check.

It was strange but John was beginning to enjoy himself. The urgency to try and make sense of everything seemed to wane and waft away. In the domestic silence (save for the noises in the conservatory and the occasional blasts from the front yard), he allowed himself to soak in the companionable quiet, letting the last of the smoky brew slide down his throat. It was just another ordinary day in the Addams household, he thought to himself as if he were narrating a book. The kids were out playing with Fester, Mama was catching up with Cleopatra and Morticia was bandaging his head after his occasional accident.

_A domestic life._ He mused. Domestic. He had never thought of domesticity, simple home life, as something precious until recently. A domestic life was something that had been difficult for him to achieve. A domestic life with Carolyn was even more absurd to think of although he had enjoyed playing his part as her adoring husband. To think he was actually _living_ one now. It was amazing.

Maybe he didn't need to ask if she knew she was Carolyn. Maybe if she couldn't be Carolyn, he would be her Gomez for real. John felt like he might enjoy being Gomez. He could be satisfied with a life like this.

He was jolted from his thoughts and yelped when she tightened around a particularly sore spot. The cloth slackened at once.

"Oh, I'm sorry darling, did I hurt you?" Morticia winced, rounding to the front.

He raised his hand to lift the cloth blocking his view. "No, no, not at all…carry on."

She went on until she was satisfied with what John felt must have been yards and yards of cloth binding his head. When she was done, he heard more than he saw Thing's box lid squeak open. Thing appeared helpfully, twirling a pair of surgical scissors and a tape dispenser on his pinkie.

"Thank you, Thing." Morticia said graciously as she reached for them.

He heard a snip and felt the tape nip down his turban securely.

"There, all done." Morticia announced, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She folded her arms in satisfaction. "You'll get better in no time and you'll look just as handsome while you recover." Her eyes glinted proudly. "Like a true Addams pirate."

John grinned gingerly as he imagined an Addams pirate might, his right eye completely obscured. He reached up to feel the seemingly large white growth on top of him. It felt vaguely like a second head.

"Thank you… Morticia." He said hesitantly, finding it difficult to call her anything else that wasn't 'Carolyn'. He hadn't thought he would have trouble addressing her as Morticia and was surprised that he did. It felt clumsy, like his hazy response to her calling him Gomez.

Something in his eyes or his voice must have unsettled her because she looked at him for a long moment. Her hand reached for his face and she stroked his cheek tenderly, his heart fizzling with the last of the 'world-is-at-peace' feeling. He closed his eyes restfully, a soft sigh escaping him. It was impossible not to relish in her gentle caress.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Gomez?" she murmured quietly, as if they were the only two people in the world and yet were still making an effort to have a private conversation.

He looked into her blue eyes and saw the brief flash of uncertainty, searching for assurance.

_She was looking for Gomez. _He realized.

Well, then he would give her her Gomez. He decided. He would play the charade until he was well and truly Gomez. He loved her. Gomez loved her. That was all he needed.

He would be her most wonderful Gomez.

He took her hand, the one on his cheek and pressed them to his lips, a loving gesture she recognized. The kiss felt so natural that it almost surprised him.

"Yes, _querida_." he whispered, gratified by the sparkle in her eyes. "Yes, I will be."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note:<em>

_Thank you all ever so much for all your supportive reviews! They really keep me going and I wear them like badges of honour. Thank you, Kookymonster, for taking time out to write that long review. I completely understand the caution you feel towards fics with real life actors because I feel the same way. I would never write in anyway to disrespect the memories or images of the actors and I hope that I'll be able to justify them in the rest of my fic. I'm glad you're enjoying what you see here and I thank you for reading me. :) I THANK ALL OF YOU FOR READING ME. Truly truly. Much 3. _

_Also, my pace for writing will slow down considerably due to the varying effects of school. Time is one factor. The many readings I have to do for school is another factor because it affects my writing voice and I don't want to compromise quality for deadlines. I hope that those influences aren't as obvious as I think they are in this chapter, but if they are, I do apologize. That said, I will try my best to keep going but I hope that you will all understand and not expect too much so that when I do post something, it will be a bonus. I'll hopefully be more consistent once the holidays kick in sometime around early May. _

_Till then! _


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